But There's No You, Except In My Dreams Tonight
by inhindsights
Summary: Looking at him, it felt like she was finally seeing in colour again — shades of gold, yellow, and blue all bloomed before her. / A post-3x05 fic. Mary deals with the aftermath of the events that transpired in 3x05.


She only saw him in her dreams.

During the day, the memories came. They followed her around everywhere and lingered, hiding in her own shadow. She could feel their presence crawling on her skin; they were accountable for the stinging and aching in her bones. Yet, she welcomed them with open arms. It was like a heavy stone on her foot - impossible to ignore.

There was no poetic beauty in mourning; there were only spiraling memories in twilight – far, dim, and fuzzy. They burned into her brain. She grasped at every frame of their relationship, every little, silly thing that was so profoundly _him._ She held onto them for dear life, as if they were the only remains left of him.

 _Can you picture it: the life we could have lived?_

* * *

She remembered: how his hair lit like honey in the sun, and within it, glints of gold – the crown of a King. She remembered: how she ran her fingers through his tousled hair; how she sighed against his lips when he kissed her fervently, like she was his very last breath. She remembered: his deft, tendinous fingers untying her corset strings, the sinewy dexterity that marked an archer. She remembered: dancing with him on their wedding day, eyes never leaving his, twirling around like a girl in a brand new dress, a huge grin cracking her face, glowing with the giddy lightness of infinite bliss.

* * *

She rarely smiled nowadays; smiles were reserved solely for appearances, and nothing more. People were rushing her to find a new suitor, to move on. After all, she was a Queen, though no longer the Queen of France. She regarded all of it with ridicule and dismissal; she firmly believed it was impossible to move on, if at all, from true love like that.

She hated that she had to worry about politics eventually. But _not yet._ Now was the time to mourn, and mourn she would. She would do so as long as she desired, and nobody would dare to stop her. Ever since his passing, there was a steely edge to her demeanor. No one dared to chastise her for it. How could they?

Most of the time, she wished she would just be left alone in peace. She grew accustomed to the thoughts that constantly plagued her, loomed above her like a circling vulture. She swore she knew the exact moment he had stopped breathing. It was the same moment a part of her had died with him: the part that had known how to love, and could love again.

* * *

She would spend hours sitting idly on their bed, reminiscing about better and happier times.

Tracing her fingers over the sheets, the very place where they used to make love, she could smell him. It was not acute, but it was there, nevertheless. It was everywhere, in her hair, in her dress, in the silky smoothness of her skin. It scared her, yet she took some comfort in it.

Still, she wanted to run away. There was no reason left for her to stay. As far-fetched as it sounded, she yearned to run as far as her legs could carry her, away from this lonely castle, away from the irrefutable truth. But she knew she could not. There were just too many people at risk; people whose fate rested heavily on her shoulders — _her_ people.

For all of her choices there was reckoning. And it was always the woman who must bow to the Queen. The truth sank its sharp fangs deep into her skin, and she wailed, like a woman who had lost the love of her life, and who was now a widow.

The jarring sound echoed through the hallways, and pierced the thick air. The impenetrable walls shook slightly with grief. The castle went absolutely still, as if all activity had ceased to mourn with her. It was no doubt, the cries of a Queen; a Queen who had lost much more than her title. Her cries were strident, ringing in her ears. Her tears tasted bitter on her tongue, like hard metal.

His face was always on her mind; the image seemingly real but untouchable. It would not leave her head. She wondered if she was reaching for something that she couldn't.

 _This was it_ , she concluded with finality. The fear of not knowing: if she was going to see him again. She was going to be stuck in this awful, terrible place for the rest of her life. Oblivion. It sounded eerily like death, though it did not matter. To her, death felt like this, anyway.

* * *

There was no remedy in memory.

Remembering the magic and beauty of it all only grieved her more. No one could ever compare to him; no one could have his heart. Nothing could ever eclipse the permanent mark of the love, devotion and kindness he had shone on her. She wanted to scream all of it aloud, until she became completely breathless. The words were in her mouth, and behind them others crowded close. But she did not speak. Perhaps, admitting it aloud was something else entirely — more devastating than it already was.

 _No,_ this could not be the end. He must be somewhere out there, alive and well. He must be waiting for her. Maybe then, they would finally get their happy ending. It was what they truly deserved; after all they had been put through. Life was cruel and unfair to them; they were just two teenagers in love with too much to handle, and too young to bear.

Yes, this must be it. This might very well be the very last page of their story. The ending was still unwritten; she could at least be the one to write it, right? She insisted. But reality seized her at her ankles, and she fell to her knees in despair, the quill pen slipping carelessly from her fingertips.

She might have gone insane; she did not rule out the possibility, nor tell a single soul of this probable development. She could live with that. Loving him forever could not be wrong. Even the selfish hands of fate could not take that away from her. If there was _any_ capacity left in her to love, it would only be for him. She would be willing to chase after him — his legs were always longer than hers — for the rest of her life, if it meant she would always have him in her sights; even if it was merely his silhouette.

* * *

She did not sleep much during the first few nights alone. She would lie in bed, and stare at the ceiling for a long moment. The vast emptiness of the bed gnawed at her insides. She would rise then, and grimace at her reflection in the mirror of her vanity, as it appeared she had aged over a hundred years in mere days.

One night, she considered her last-resort: committing suicide. She planned to smash the mirror with her wooden hairbrush, take one of the broken, sharp pieces, and silt her throat with it. It was going to be swift and fatal. She did not want to be saved. The hairbrush felt cool and hard in her hand, and she closed her eyes.

 _Wait for me, Francis._

She could not do it. Not yet. She threw the hairbrush across the room in anger, seething at her cowardice. She felt she was waiting for something — of what, she did not know.

She closed her eyes again.

* * *

At night, in bed, images came. Images of what _they_ had been. They began as dreams, trailing caresses in her sleep, from which she stirred, trembling. The state of being awake and asleep was unclear; she felt as though she was drifting in-between the two mindlessly, a wandering spirit. She would rise, and still they came. They tormented her; all of them coming alive in her head.

This time, however, felt strange.

Hands, smooth and strong, reached to touch her. She knew those hands. They were the same hands that memorized every inch of her body, touched her in those places that made her come undone, and beg for more. They stroked her face gently, reassuring her that everything was fine. She almost believed it. But even here, behind the darkness of her eyelids, she could not see his face. His hands left her face, and it immediately turned cold in their absence.

She called out his name. Once, then twice.

A few beats. That was when he appeared. Suddenly, he was here, body and soul. It surprised her that she remained calm and still, like she was tethered to the ground.

From afar, she regarded him with a wistful longing. Now that he was here, the words that she had rehearsed before froze in her mouth. She had been waiting — too long — for this. She simply gazed at him. He was still beautiful; as beautiful as she remembered of him. He had looked at her a thousand, thousand times before, but there was something different in this gaze, an intensity she did not recognize. She opened her mouth to speak.

She heard her voice — hoarse and quavering.

"I wish I was dead. Dead with you."

She knew what he was going to say: s _tay strong, Mary, and I pray to god you will love someone else._ But he said nothing, and smiled softly at her. At that, she felt her knees shake. How much she had missed his smile; it was like the sun. It made her shine like diamonds. She had so much to say to him, a million years' worth of unspoken words. She did not know where to begin; there was too much left unsaid. With him, there was always something to say.

Holding her breath, she watched as he approached her slowly, from a distance in the inviting light. They were only inches apart now. He was wearing the jacket adorned with gold embroidery that he had worn at their wedding — the happiest day of her life. Tears spilled from her cheeks as he reached out to cup a hand against her cheek. She covered her hand over his, pressing it harder against her cheek, until she felt a dull pain throbbing.

" _Mary_."

Something in her broke — completely and utterly.

Her sobs were violent, insurmountable waves of grief and joy rocked her back and forth. Her knees buckled. He was kneeling on the ground with her, caressing her cheek gently. She kept her eyes locked on his, despite fat, hot tears blurring her vision, as if he would disappear forever once she blinked. He was consoling her now, still smiling.

"You will be alright, my love."

The low, calm timbre of his voice soothed her. He was watching her, running his hand along her shoulder. Standing up, he offered her his hand. She grabbed it, perhaps too forcefully, and rose to her feet, albeit unsteadily. Wiping her tears with his thumb, he stared at her with rapt attention; his lips parted slightly, like he was beckoning her to kiss him. With that, she leaned forward until her lips landed on his, tasting his mouth as she deepened the kiss.

Her stomach trembled, and a warm drop of pleasure spread beneath her skin.

 _More._

After what seemed like years, they pulled apart, breathing heavily. She blinked owlishly at him, still in disbelief that he was _holding_ her in his arms. She placed her hands on her chest, near his heart where she always used to, and looked at him.

"Francis." She inhaled deeply, battling the tears that threatened to spill again.

"Will you be waiting for me?"

 _On the other side?_ She nearly let the rest slip out of her mouth.

He did not answer. Instead he pulled her into his chest, and held her tight in his embrace. She wanted so badly to scream in frustration, hit her fists against his chest, and beg him to answer the question. If he was waiting for her, then there would be no question. There would no longer be fear — the fear of him not waiting for her, and not seeing him again. She would join him on the other side, arms outstretched as graceful as a swan, with a smile on her face.

But for now, she chose to settle. She was in his arms again, and it felt like coming home. Pulling back ever so slightly, she could feel the warmth of his breath on her cheek, the entrancing depth of his dark, luminous blue eyes, and the stillness of his strong, steady arms wrapped around her waist.

"I will always love you."

She whispered simply, in the span of one breath, the words that he had already known, because there was nothing else more true.

She understood his silence.

She watched as the edges of his mouth curled up into a smile, and he traced his thumb over her lips, then her chin; the gesture all too familiar in making her heart race, and her breathing quicken. In his face, she could see tenderness in every line, something kind and covetous and warm in his expression.

The ache in her chest bottomed out, and broke wide open. Looking at him, it felt like she was finally seeing in color again — shades of gold, yellow, and blue all bloomed before her.

 _I do not want to wake up from this tonight._

* * *

Notes:

Lots of notes! Sooo I cried while writing this. Feel free to ask me more about this fic in reviews - I honestly don't know how I feel about this one. But there was a lot of anxiety involved when posting this one, haha.

Originally, I didn't plan on writing a post-3x05 fic that touched on Mary's grief. But last night, I suddenly thought about this line: "She only saw him in her dreams." It was stuck in my head for a long time, and I couldn't sleep. I knew I had to write something out of it, so I went on from there. And this turned out to be really depressing and just - painful. Yikes.

Also, the theme song for this fic is "Dark Paradise" by Lana Del Rey. The lyrics are so on-point in describing Mary's thoughts in mourning; I listened to it on repeat while writing this fic and sobbed like a baby.

There's a quote from 1x22 in this one; I do not own any claim to it. I thought it was appropriate for this fic. It's so powerful and it gutted me when I watched the episode back in May last year. Definitely one of my favorite quotes from Mary.

I debated about Francis' reply to Mary's "I will always love you", but ultimately I felt he didn't have to say anything. Looking back, I'm not sure if it was the right choice. Feel free to give me some feedback on it - again, reviews are greatly appreciated.

For those of you who read or favorited my previous - first! - fic, I just wanna say thank you! This one's for those of you who are still in denial and pain like me :)) *group hug*

I've yet to post my AU Christmas fic; I still haven't decided if I should post all of it, or in chapters. It's almost done; with over 10k words so far oops. I'll probably post it sometime this week - maybe before Christmas? To those who are wondering, I do have a Pregnancy fic in the works; it's just not going to be done this week, though. :(

So, uh, thank you for reading!


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